


Defenestration

by zombified_queer



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Breaking Things, Hannibal's Mind Palace, Kintsugi, M/M, Statues, Surreal, Symbolism, Takes place during early season 3, Word based prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 03:18:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16526333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombified_queer/pseuds/zombified_queer
Summary: Defenestation: The act of throwing someone out of a window.Or, Hannibal retreats somewhere safe to lose his composure but even if no one's around to see the outburst it can still be shameful.





	Defenestration

It’s up the winding staircase, through the Hall of Addresses, which leads to the Hall of Personas. Each person is perfectly preserved, study and shining, living marble statues to commemorate them. They could speak, if Hannibal so desired. They could play therapist or punisher, judge or jury. For now, he keeps them quiet, their lips cold, chiseled stone. 

Here’s Alana Bloom, sunflowers woven into her hair, their stems flowing in her hair and their roots siphoning nutrients from that brilliant mind of hers. But just to look at her sends a jolt of frost up Hannibal’s spine. To touch her? Death. Her eyes narrow as he passes, but he has something more than her to concern himself with. 

Gideon. He hunches on his pedestal. A modern-day Renfield chewing marble spiders. He freezes, eyes wide, staring at Hannibal. This creature, in Hannibal’s mind, is just another pawn, one he can’t be bothered with today.

And there’s Lounds, her hand holding a shining pen as if it’s a sword of justice. Her eyes are wide, something between fear and hatred as he pauses before her. Sometimes, he wants to snap her arm off, scar her since she wants to play soldier so badly. One day, he assures himself, he’ll make a fine dish using plenty of ginger.

And here’s Crawford, sombre as ever, his hat perched on his head looking more mob boss than FBI agent. But Hannibal knows Jack Crawford is not to be toyed with. Despite his statuesque pose, he’s perhaps one of the most insightful people to talk to, especially over a glass of a fine Chianti.

Abigail makes him pause the longest in the high-vaulted hall. He cups her cheek, thumb running over her cheekbone, trying desperately to wipe that stone tear from her face, failing each time. When she moves, it’s to fix him with her sorrowful stare. 

“He betrayed us,” Hannibal whispers in apology. 

Abigail’s marble hands clutch at Hannibal’s wrist, as if she knows what he plans to do. He places his hand over hers to reassure her. 

“It will be quick,” he promises.

Abigail lets go, her arms folded over her chest in a gesture of self-assurance. 

Will’s the focal point of this gallery. 

He always has been.

He’s dressed in black jeans that accentuate the muscles of his thighs, the curve of his flank, something that has always made Hannibal’s mouth water. Will seems to be drowning in his flannel, even though the sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, showing off his capable hands, his well-sculpted forearms. His glasses are halfway down his nose. There’s a gun holster on his hip, but no handgun in it.

Seated like The Thinker, Will rests his hand on his fist, mournful in the way he contemplates. Hannibal pauses, just staring at Will. 

Will looks up with equal parts adoration and fear. 

Only some of the fire has gone out of him. But Hannibal still hefts Will’s marble body up, over his head, throwing the marble statue through the stained-glass window. He watches Will’s white hand reach out, marble looking for something stable to grasp. Will falls so slowly from Hannibal’s mind palace, each second a year of the unspoken things between them festering.

The moment Will’s body comes in contact with the ground, he shatters into a million minute fragments, pieces of porcelain on the grey flagstones below. Hannibal can’t pick out a single eye or a finger to judge him. Even Will’s clothes have exploded into white powder.

But the moment he sees the anger he’s wrought, Hannibal sinks to his knees. Here, tucked away from all else, he allows himself to cry, to weep like a child who’s favourite toy is broken. 

He wishes to pull Will up through the window, to mend every crack with gold, to kiss every part of Will he’s broken. 

Cold hands grasp his shoulders from behind, thumbs pressing gently into his spine.

“Abigail.” He knows it’s her. She doesn’t need to say a word. “He has brought our house to ruin, like a weed.”

Her thumbs press more insistently, the cold pressure soothing him. Her lips rest against the nape of his neck.

“We could have been a family. You would have gone on to a top university.”

Her hands massage at his shoulder blades, moving slower, more insistently working the tension from his back.

“I’ll have to gather him.”

And, the moment he’s spoken it, every shard of Will Graham appears at Hannibal’s feet. 

“Repair the window.”

Each piece of stained glass comes up from the ground, slotting together like the pieces of a puzzle. 

“I need gold to mend him.”

And there’s a bowl and brush at his feet. He doesn’t allow himself the comfort of Will put together for him. He spends a long amount of time using the golden glue to put Will’s pieces together, sometimes swearing under his breath to get them to fit. Through the hours it takes, Abigail sits on the floor beside him, quiet and cold as an open grave. She sometimes rests her head on his shoulder, sometimes just watches the careful brushstrokes his hands make. 

At the end of it all, Hannibal’s hands are stained with gold and Will is pieced together, glaring at the doctor. 

That adoration is still there. Hannibal takes Will's gold-lined face in his hands, a metallic smear across Will's cheek. Will closes his eyes, head tilted just a bit. 

Hannibal leans in, his nose brushing against Will's, lips so close to touching Hannibal can almost imagine the heat of Will's breath, the taste of scotch on his tongue.

With a start, Hannibal wakes on the train. Across from him is not Will but Bedelia.

“You were having a nightmare,” she notes coolly, crossing her legs with poise that says she’s sizing him up.

Hannibal doesn’t look at her, instead watching the Italian countryside blur together. “A nightmare implies it would be nighttime.”

“It would be in Wolf Trap.”

Hannibal narrows his eyes. For a second, his hands cry out to grasp Bedelia, to throw her through the window of the train.

Instead he folds them properly in his lap.


End file.
